


Consumed

by Xylophone



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xylophone/pseuds/Xylophone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years prior: Under a third-quarter moon in Hanamura, Hanzo Shimada carries a sword that is sharp, but not too sharp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consumed

Hanamura. Dusk.

The wind brushes through his hair. Above the rooftops, petals swirl, the pattern changing unpredictably but always with a sense of balance, order within chaos. Watching their wheeling flight has always made him feel secure and whole, rooted in this old, beautiful place, belonging here as time revolves around him. Not now. Cherry blossoms on the breeze – he swallows hard in disgust.

For tonight, he will have complete privacy. Dismissing the security detail at the complex takes no more than a gesture and a word, the work of a moment. That is how much power he has here, how much control. But it takes effort, discipline, to maintain it, to stave off entropy. Time and commitment invested, generation after generation, to hold the center, to make this single point in the world do one’s bidding. Order within chaos. A handful of sand flowing through his clenched fist.

At the heart of the complex, a temple. Approaching silently from the balcony, he half unsheathes his blade and runs a thumb along the edge. It is sharp, but not too sharp. The finest edge he could give it would yield wounds an opponent wouldn’t even feel. The slight pain, the blood welling warm on his thumb centers him. This is real. No chance to undo what he does, no lying to himself about the consequences. He has assured complete privacy for this meeting; the choices to be made will belong to no one outside it. In the clear sky shines only a sliver of waning moon, like the claw of some bird of prey, limning the sword in liquid silver. As he steps through the upper entrance he slips it back into its sheath and darkness consumes it again.

A figure stands before the empty shrine, gazing up at the great blue and green dragons painted on the panel above. From above, Hanzo scans his outline, assesses his position and posture with a sniper’s practiced eye. His brother has dressed properly, traditionally, for this encounter, which Hanzo appreciates – but knowing Genji, the choice to humor Hanzo’s request might be completely meaningless. His left arm and half his torso are left bare, so Hanzo can trace his tattoo, green ink nearly black in the pale lamplight, from the forearm up to where it coils beside the scabbard on his back. Genji wears it comfortably, his stance easy and balanced, the way Hanzo is with his bow slung over his shoulder.

“Hanzo!” Below, Genji turns to face him, smiling. Always the charismatic one. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” His brother’s voice is light. Oblivious.

“Brother,” Hanzo replies gravely. He refocuses. Simplicity. Clarity. Honor. These are what he must rely on now. For terrain this treacherous, he has no other guides. “You heeded my word.” He jumps down lightly to land on the floor of the temple room.

“I am at your service,” Genji replies, and for a heartbeat Hanzo dares to hope that this time he’ll finally _listen_. “For the moment. What do you want from me?”

“You already know what I want from you.”

Genji shakes his head extravagantly. “Really? All this ceremony for the same old argument. Waste of my time and you know it.”

_You_ , Hanzo wants to spit back, _don’t know how to do anything with your time_ but _waste it_. He forces the words down. But it’s true – he’s tried to have this conversation a dozen times or more, and Genji always deflects or sidesteps or eventually just ignores him, all his cleverness devoted to avoiding the issue Hanzo needs him to understand. A point that the clan elders, lacking the perspective of actually being brothers with Genji, could never truly appreciate. “Genji, I know your skills, both mental and physical.” He keeps his voice deliberate, even. “No one has better reason than me to believe that you could be an invaluable asset to the Shimada clan. To rebuild our status, our Empire. If you but dedicated yourself to the task at hand.”

Genji sighs. “Please, I rarely get the chance to talk with you as it is. Do you _have_ to go mixing business and pleasure?”

“It’s not my fault you only show inclination for the latter,” Hanzo replies. “But that is in your hands. You can change, I know. You can – contribute.”

“Oh yeah? And what would be in it for me?” He’s needling Hanzo, trying to provoke him. Genji is good at getting under his skin, a master of the art – Hanzo’s fingers twitch, his whole body taut as a bowstring.

“Always so self-obsessed,” he says, through a thin veneer of calm. But he needs to be tolerant here; if he’s reactive he’ll have no chance of reaching his brother. He remembers when it was easy to speak to Genji, when he was always so _proud_ of his quick-thinking younger brother, but something in the years and his brother’s carelessness has burnt it away so it is consumed almost to ash. “You get the opportunity to do your duty, nothing more or less.”

“My duty to what? You, my elder brother, master of the Shimada clan? Secrets and deals, exchange of weapons, intel, assassinations, whatever it is we’re supposed to do? The things _you_ value above all else?” He laughs suddenly, a sounds that jars Hanzo’s vertebrae. “And I’m standing here listening to you call _me_ self-obsessed.”

“ _No_ ,” Hanzo snaps. “It’s not about me and you know it, so you can stop playing the fool. We’re equals in this, Genji, if you take an equal share of the responsibility. I need you to do your duty to the _clan_. Your duty to Father’s memory. If nothing else you must at least see the imperative in _that_.”

“It never mattered before.” In an instant, Genji drops the glibness. Hanzo knows his brother has the capacity for seriousness, seen hints of it, sharp as splinters, over the years. If it were only dependable, it would not have come to this. “We both know I never took the idea of duty to the clan seriously. Father didn’t care, and no one else did, either.”

_Except for me_ , Hanzo thinks fiercely. _I always cared_. “Our father believed he had years ahead of him. And an elder son who could rein you in eventually. He thought he could afford to indulge you. What can _I_ do? Order you time and time again to show up, knowing you will never do so unless it suits your convenience or your whim? Hope you will at least choose to squander your talents in a way that doesn’t destroy the work of centuries? Stave off the objections of the clan elders with half-truths and excuses for the rest of my life?” _Stop_ , he thinks, _stop, you are getting too emotional, don’t lose control_. But his pulse is thrumming in his jaw, his own tattoo searing hot on his skin. “You take the wrong lesson from early leniency, if you think your presence doesn’t matter now. The world is changing, brother, little though you may care. Powers shift and fracture and vie for dominance, and everyone stands upon the brink. Ourselves included.”

“What? Omnics, Overwatch, the power-drunk companies trying to buy the rights to half the planet? You’re afraid of them?” Hanzo can’t tell if it’s scorn or curiosity in his brother’s voice.

“Does it matter to you? You’d while away your time on girls or games or whatever strikes your fancy without a care to such matters either way. I’m the one left trying to figure out what threats are worth being afraid of. Shouldn’t I let you continue to enjoy your own ignorance? Isn’t that what you want?”

Genji rolls his eyes. “Well, spit it out when you’re ready. I’ll be here to hear it.”

The truth is that Hanzo is afraid of the power players that threaten to turn the Shimada Empire into one more toothless pawn on the global board, the ones that now, after decades of letting them run half of Japan as they pleased are interested in fighting over their authority and resources. He’d have to be stupid not to, and at least he is not _that_ stupid. And he’s even more afraid that he’s not strong or powerful or cunning enough on his own to see the way out, to get back in control from underneath the competing threats and bribes and promises they make. But there’s something else now, a cold fear that lies in the blade he carries, honed precisely to be sharp, but not too sharp, and the long-accustomed strength in his own arm, and the dragon etched into his skin. “Have you ever even given it a moment’s thought? Who’s capable of pulling the strings, what that means for us? Has your training as a warrior, as a strategist, been little more to you than an anachronistic pastime?”

“I have thought about it,” Genji replies after a pause. “A little. Someone asked me about – anyway, I really _don’t_ know, though. Even if it’s supposed to be our turf they’re try to fight over. Because whoever wants what we can offer, or wants to destroy us – all of them believe they’re the good guys. That they’re in the right, they’re justified. Even if one of them approached me face to face, would it make a difference what they thought I’d be fighting for?”

It’s a little more insight than Hanzo was expecting from his brother, more depth. Maybe one last chance for his brother to _listen_ before it’s too late. “You know what I want you to fight for. What I want both of use to fight for, together. It is time to pick a side, brother. Stop trying to deny your birthright and just _do your duty_.”

Genji sighs. “You know I really do miss spending time with you.”

“And I with you, Genji. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“It’s what _I’m_ talking about, though. I might as well take the opportunity.”

“You just did,” Hanzo replies, and Genji laughs, presumably because it’s inane. But Hanzo laughs too, even if it dies away as quickly as it came. Genji places a hand on Hanzo’s own bare shoulder, the skin of his palm warm, caring. His brother is so swift at changing tactics, so disarming; strengths that could complement Hanzo’s own weaknesses, of which he has become far too keenly aware.

“And what have you been up to, brother, while I’ve been wasting my time away from our family concerns on my petty diversions and musings?”

“Unraveling the problem.”

“Finding solutions?”

“No. Failing.” He struggles for the words to explain it. “There are too many pieces, too much risk, no matter what course of action I consider. The talons of war finally raking across our fief. Internal strife. Elders pretending to defer to me while breathing down my neck, making demands even they cannot possibly think are reasonable. Shaded threats and outright terror. So many variables that I can’t see how I can resolve it all. But I must. Somehow. It is my duty.” He looks up again at the painted dragons and feels a pulse of envy wash through him, envy of the power and grace and ageless wisdom that shines through their sinuous forms.  But above all that, he envies with a desperate longing the fact that there are two of them to bear the weight of Earth and Heaven, and not one. The thought of being _alone_ when he finally fails everyone – the Shimada organization interests, the elders, his dead father, his younger brother – is unbearable. A look passes between the two of them, Genji’s eyes unblinking and full of compassion, understanding, Hanzo trembling because it’s been so long since he had any real hope of it.

“You could just walk away from it,” Genji says. Innocently. “Just give it all up. Let it go, finally have a taste of freedom –”

The sword is out before he can say another word, its edge poised an inch from Genji’s throat.

Hanzo watches as his brother’s eyes widen, as he pulls away, uncertain. Off-balance. Disbelieving. It feels good. It feels horrible that it feels so good, but that doesn’t stop it. “I did not summon you here to make a request,” he hears himself say in a very steady voice. “This is an ultimatum.”

“You’re … kidding.”

“I’m not the one who likes to joke, Genji.”

“And I don’t get a choice here?” Genji’s voice is tentative now, wary, the cockiness completely gone.

“Duty is not a choice. It is an honor, and sometimes a burden, but it is not a choice you get to make. You refuse to understand the principle. Which has brought us to this point. But yes,” Hanzo says, taking pleasure in how cold his voice sounds, “I can frame it as a choice for you, so you can grasp it: Accept your place, your responsibilities. Or the sword.” He waits for Genji to make eye contact and holds it several seconds. The wind scrapes harshly against the roof. “Go on.”

Slowly, with uncharacteristic awkwardness, Genji draws his own blade, tilting it to let the light play randomly across the metal, haphazard and distracted. Swordsmanship has always been Genji’s specialty, so the fight will not be a farce. They’ve sparred many times before; Hanzo knows his brother’s capabilities like his own pulse, as Genji knows his. His brother has a slight edge in speed and agility, but Hanzo has more raw power. And conviction. The first stroke proves it, as Genji barely dodges; he holds off the follow-up with his own blade, but can’t force it back for long. “Hanzo, I don’t understand,” he says, falling into a defensive stance, but Hanzo cuts him off with another sweep of his sword. “You don’t want to do this,” he says simply, as if it were self-evident. Hanzo doesn’t even blink. Another series of blows, nothing held back, the clang of metal on metal reverberating through the temple as Genji throws them off, his speed pushed to a desperate brink. “Hanzo, _please_ , you don’t want to do this.” Begging him to listen, as Hanzo has done so many times so fruitlessly.

“It is my duty. What I _want_ has nothing to do with it. I will do it anyway. I will not cast it aside, I will not shirk it, not as you would.” He pushes his assault again and Genji falls back, starting to breathe more rapidly. His movements are completely reactive, hardly enough to keep Hanzo from completely overwhelming him. A strike finally lands, clawing the flesh just below Genji’s collarbone, a thin, shallow cut. Hanzo can feel the exact moment the resistance snaps through his whole arm up to his shoulder. “The honor of the Shimada clan rests with me alone. You have made that clear.”

Genji smiles, and Hanzo feels the bitterness of it in his own throat. “Oh, I understand now. You really _do_ want to do this, don’t you.” Genji doesn’t lose the rhythm of the fight, keeps moving, sword flowing like water. Hanzo follows, a wave cresting and crashing. “Duty is just another word for whatever feeds your blind sense of pride.” Still his brother doesn’t try to turn the fight against him, just dodges what he can and blocks what he can’t, making it look easy. Holding Hanzo at bay. Will he not try to go on the offensive, try to strike back at him? _I hurt you. Deliberately. You know what I am doing now. At least_ try _to hurt me back_. But still Genji refuses to press. His skill in defense – an approach he never been patient enough to stick to for long in sparring matches – is mesmerizing, unpredictable but balanced. Order within chaos. He’s looking for an opening to disarm Hanzo, to stop the fight without any more damage. “Just admit it and give up the honor crap.”

Hanzo answers with a flurry of strikes so blisteringly fast even he is surprised, and a hit finally catches Genji’s thigh as he tries to pivot away. He stumbles forward. “Hanzo,” he gasps, “please. Tell me you don’t want to do this. You just want to try to teach me a lesson and you have absolutely no idea how, that’s it, that’s all, right?” And Genji is very clever, whether he realizes it or not, playing on the idea of what Hanzo wants, because it takes a wordless growl to stop himself answering _yes_.

“No,” he snaps, “I told you, you already know what I want.” The blade whips through the air, striking through Genji’s half-hearted block deep into his side, driving him to his knees. “So why don’t you just give it?” He meets his brother’s gaze, but Genji doesn’t look as if he hates Hanzo for this. He mostly just looks confused and in pain. “Just tell me you’ll do it. Swear obey the demands of the clan, completely, for the rest of your life.” _Please_ , Hanzo thinks, _it would be enough_.

Genji shakes his head wordlessly.

“ _Why not?_ ” Hanzo finally screams.

Another shrug. Resignation. “Because I wouldn’t mean it. I wouldn’t end up doing what you think you want me to do no matter what I say now. I can’t promise I’d never walk away. So we would just end up going through this again.” The last words comes out ragged, finally, with something like anger or desperation, which is almost a relief.

“I knew you had your own sense of honor, brother,” Hanzo replies quietly. “And courage. I won’t forget it.” No, cherry blossoms will come and go year by year inexorably and he won’t forget what happened here, what he’s doing now. He will remember the feel of his blade in his own hands against his brother’s flesh. He’s already struck Genji down, has already gone too far. There’s a well of fierce protectiveness for Genji deep inside Hanzo, something that has always made him feel powerful, and suddenly it is overflowing inside him. What he _wants_ more than anything is to be shielding his brother from danger, from hurt. But he will not stop now, no matter how little his brother wants to fight back, no matter how little he wants to do this, because this is about duty and duty is _not about what he wants_. “Get up,” he says, “and we’ll put an end to it, then.”

Genji staggers to his feet. He fights with all that remains of his strength this time, hanging on grimly, but his wounds slow him, and Hanzo has finally come to his full strength in the fight. The rush of it thrills him as any real challenge to his physical prowess would, a surge of adrenaline that tastes like elation and makes him want to retch. His sword bites flesh again and again until finally the blade slams hard into Genji’s, jarring Hanzo’s wrist to numbness, throwing him off-balance by a hair’s width for a fraction of a second –   

A glimmer of green light twines itself around Genji’s arm, pooling in his left hand, over the hilt of his blade –

And Hanzo pushes into the deadlock as hard as he can, wrenching the sword from his brother’s grasp. The words of command swift on his tongue, he cuts Genji off and slams his blade into his ribcage.

The rest is the dragons’ work, harsh blue rushing along the blade of his sword, consuming what’s left of his brother’s life before they dissolve into mist and the ink of his tattoo cools.

The temple is quiet. Peace settles upon him like a muted snowfall. All he can hear is his pulse pounding in his temples and the faint wind. Nothing more. He pushes back a lock of hair and it comes away soaked in blood, like his clothes and hands and hair, still warm, the smell of it so thick it coats his tongue.

A sound. His brother, breath rasping through his ruined lungs. A word Hanzo cannot make out, something Genji is asking for. Their father, perhaps, dead and gone more than a year now. Or maybe it’s Hanzo’s name he trying to call, faintly – Hanzo starts, but pulls back. No. The one thing he cannot do now is think to comfort his brother in his dying moments. He has forfeited that right utterly and completely and he is helpless now to do anything about it. He has earned this. And if Genji does not deserve to die alone, Hanzo knows he at least deserves better than to be forced to watch his own murderer offer some last futile expression of affection. Deserves better than that last betrayal on top of all the rest.

With a rough, wordless cry Hanzo sweeps his sword wide, tearing through the scroll that hangs before the place of worship, staining it red, before collapsing to his knees. His tears are hotter than his own cooling blood now, and they are the only warmth he can feel for the agonizing minutes its takes for Genji’s breathing to fade away. When it is gone, he stands, steadies himself. His sword he regards for a moment before setting it aside on the shrine. He does not think it will fit his hand again. He will take up his bow instead: it will serve.

Alone, he steps out into the night. The wind dies down, the stars come out. The security agents are still absent, as he ordered. It will be some time before Genji’s body is found – several hours at least. By that time Hanzo will be gone from the castle. Could he return to his place, to the elders, report how he handled the issue? No. Their approval or gratitude, if they were to give it, would change nothing. He knows what he has done, what he has had to do. He will not allow himself to be so base and self-centered to make a claim to regret, to remorse. Those are luxuries he will never deserve, and he accepts it, because he must.

It will be a long time before Hanzo returns to Hanamura. A year, he thinks. Incense offerings in honor of the dead. That ritual he will be allowed, will at least not be an affront to Genji’s memory, to his spirit, even if it is little more than that. It is the duty he will carry out year by year, the burden he will bear, alone. Until the carrion birds that he knows must soon descend upon the helmless Shimada Empire track him down and finally consume him too.

 

 


End file.
